


how in the world

by twohourstraffic



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Interviews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twohourstraffic/pseuds/twohourstraffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jack’s charming, funny even, in the Falcs team videos. He draws pictures and cracks jokes and makes insightful comments on their teamwork and strategy. But for some reason, the second he gets in front of an actual interviewer, he has the charisma of a bowling ball.</i>
</p><p>Jack didn’t come to the NHL to do interviews. He came to play hockey. He tries to avoid his obligations. The team are bemused.</p><p>Loosely inspired by Jack’s stock interview answers in 3.03 (Meet The Falconers).</p>
            </blockquote>





	how in the world

Jack starts training with the Falconers after graduation. In October, he scores a goal from the third line in his first NHL game. The entire Samwell team, plus past members who wanted to come, are watching, screaming, from the stands, draped in Falcs paraphernalia. Bitty has a massive beanie pulled down right over his ears. Shitty has a scarf draped over his shoulders. Lardo, Chowder and Dex are in matching Zimmermann jerseys. Nursey has a very subtle t-shirt. Ransom and Holster are sharing a flag.

They crowd him as he comes out from the locker room, all shouting over each other in their excitement. He looks exhausted, overwhelmed, but grateful beyond words that they’re all there.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Zimms,” Shitty whispers in his ear as they hug tightly. He’s not sure, but it looks like Jack has a tear or two in his eyes when they pull apart.

They all go out for dinner and Jack sits in the corner of the booth, surrounded by his closest friends. When the bus leaves to head back to Samwell, Shitty, Lardo and Bitty aren’t on it. They take over his spare room and couch, and spend the rest of the weekend eating and chatting and laughing.

Shitty drives back to Cambridge with a lump in his throat.

* * *

A few months into the season, the gloss of driving down to games several times a week has worn off. Shitty still tries to get to the Haus at least once a week, though, to catch up with everyone and cheer on his boy.

It’s a glorious winter afternoon when he pulls up in front of the Haus and parks. The sun is shining strongly, even though the display in his car tells him that it’s close to -10. He hustles down the path and up the stairs, giving himself a moment to take in his old home. He still misses it, but it’s good to know that he can always come back.

The front door is locked, which is unusual, but Shitty has never let that stop him before. Three years of living in the Haus taught him all the tricks. He lifts the door by the handle and shoves with his shoulder, and it swings open lazily.

“Hello?” he calls into the gloom. It’s pretty clear that no-one’s home – the lights are all off, there isn’t any music playing, no hints of conversation. He wanders lazily through the entrance and into the TV room, taking in the soft smell of cinnamon, always overpowered by that weird mould that won’t stop growing under the stairs no matter what they spray on it.

Shitty turns on the TV and settles on the couch, which has fortunately had a rug thrown over its disgusting cushions. He pulls out his Contracts textbook and spends a relatively pleasant hour reading with Cutthroat Kitchen in the background. He’s contemplating whether he could cook using conch shells as pots when the front door opens and slams.

“God, this place smells fucking weird,” he hears Lardo mutter to herself. There is the unmistakable sound of boots being kicked off, a scarf being unwrapped, a coat being unbuttoned.

“You should probably do something about that, you slacker. You’re manager, right?” Shitty calls out.

“Shitty!” Lardo shrieks, and before he knows it, he’s buried under all five feet of her. He sighs happily and nuzzles his forehead into the crook of her neck. “I didn’t think you were coming until later this afternoon, bro. What are you doing here?”

He snorts. “My class finished up at 11 and I had nothing better to do. Do you really think I’d rather be contemplating my future in my tiny studio in fucking Cambridge than being surrounded by you lot?”

She giggles, and they lie there for a few minutes, chatting quietly about his drive over.

The front door opens again and Bitty’s voice comes drifting into the room. “I’m just going to leave this open for a second, OK? Try and get some fresh air through. I know it’s freezing but ten minutes should be enough, it’s getting ridiculous, this house smells like a – you OK, Lardo?”

Shitty sticks his head up over her shoulder and Bitty grins widely. “Why, hello there!”

“Hello yourself, Mr Bittle. What’s up?”

Bitty comes to sit cross-legged in front of the couch, clearly not expecting its current inhabitants to be going anywhere.

They chat as the Haus slowly floods with residents, team members and the occasional partner. Bitty leaves to make team dinner, joined by Chowder who is telling him about his plans with Farmer for the next day. Ransom comes to sit down and promptly launches into a long and complicated story about his asshole professor and his presumptions about jocks and how he’s considering launching an official investigation. Shitty tries to nod in all the right places before admitting that, “Fuck, bro, I’m not sure what you want me to say but it sounds like he’s a dick.”

Ransom pulls him off the couch.

At dinner time, they all gather around the table in Bitty’s kitchen and devour the soup and grilled cheeses that he’s made. It’s warm and homey and safe, and for a minute Shitty can’t quite remember why he left. After they’ve eaten, Bitty pulls four pies out of thin air. They’re perfect, as always. Shitty moans orgasmically at his first mouthful and Lardo shoves him with a grin. He smiles back, his mouth full, until Bitty scolds him jokingly for his table manners.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Oh, hush you!”

When they’ve finished the meal and cleared the table, the dishes washed and put away, they move back into the den to watch the game. Jack plays exquisitely in the first period. He scores a beautiful goal, right over the goalie’s shoulder, and the Haus erupts in cheers.

“Fuck, he’s good,” Shitty rants. “Just, did you see the way he just grabbed it? Smooth as anything, like he didn’t have to think about it. Like fucking silk. Just gorgeous.”

Ransom and Holster are spamming the SMH group chat with gifs. Lardo is silently, stoically thrilled, in that way that only Lardo can pull off. Bitty’s grinning widely and tweeting about it. Chowder’s answering Tango’s steady stream of questions.

No-one is surprised when the interviewer heads straight to Jack after the first period.

“That was an amazing goal earlier on tonight,” she enthuses.

Jack gives a tiny smile, just for a second. His eyes are dead, like he’s reading cue cards given to him during the making of a hostage video. “Thank you.”

“You guys are playing like _dynamite_ out there tonight.”

Jack’s weird interview monotone is out in full force. “Yeah, you know, I think that we’ve all just been trying to play some great hockey, and I’m glad to hear that that’s coming through.”

“What do you think the strategy will be for the rest of the game?” she pushes, clearly trying to get a more interesting answer.

Jack doesn’t give her an inch. “Just … more of the same, I should think.”

“Hoping for another goal?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Shitty can see the interviewer touch her earpiece, receiving instructions from her supervisor, but she just shrugs awkwardly, thanks Jack and signs off.

There’s a stunned silence in the Haus before Ransom turns around to everyone else. “Shut me up if I’m wrong but … that was uncomfortable, right?”

Holster lets out a breath that he’s clearly been holding in. “Oh fuck, thank God it wasn’t just _me_. That was full First Year Hockey Robot Jack.”

Shitty tries to find some way to defend Jack and finds himself coming up short. “He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, though.”

Lardo hits him on the shoulder, even as Holster is throwing a cushion at him. “Shitty, bro, we all love him to pieces, but that was some old school, get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here Jack.”

Bitty worries his lower lip. “Lord, I hope he’s alright. He looked really uncomfortable.”

Ransom grimaces. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

At the end of the game, there’s more of the same. A couple of reporters ask Jack excited questions, he answers with a grimace and the broadcast ends on a strange note.

Lardo turns to Shitty. “Well.”

Shitty shrugs. “Yeah. That was fucking weird.”

Bitty tries to stand up for Jack. “You know how he feels when he has to talk about himself. He’s trying his hardest.”

“Is he, though?” Tango asks. Chowder’s eyes go wide. Whiskey throws a cushion at him.

“ _Dude_ ,” Nursey mutters.

* * *

A few days later, on Fox Sports, they screen an interview of Jack being stopped in the Falcs car park, on his way to practice.

“Mr Zimmermann, do you have any comments on the latest trades involving the Falconers? How will it affect your line in the future?”

“Well, it certainly happened. And I’m sure that management wouldn’t make a decision without being sure that it was the right thing to do.”

Lardo sends a link to the group chat with Shitty, Ransom and Holster.

* * *

 

> **Zimmermann: Falconers have “good shot” at playoffs**
> 
> **Int:** The Falconers have been playing wonderfully this season, thanks in no small part to your joining the team. I think that anyone you asked would agree that you’ve really meshed with your line, especially Jones and Rodriguez. Would you say that the team have a good shot at the playoffs, come April?
> 
> **JZ:** Yes.

* * *

**_group message: the squad_ **

**Ransom:** yes.

 **Holster:** yes.

 **Shitty:** LEAVE HIM ALONE

 **Lardo:** Yes.

 **Shitty:** oh ffs not you too

* * *

It’s like Jack has challenged himself to try and out-awkward himself in each interview. Not only that, but it almost looks like he’s taken it upon himself to be deliberately evasive. Never rude, Shitty knows he’s better than that. But he’s definitely not giving any interviewers an inch.

“What do you think about the team’s prospects this season?”

“Sorry, which team?”

“The Falconers.”

“Oh. Yeah, they’re good. We’re playing as a team and that’s all we can do.”

Shitty stares at his laptop screen disbelievingly and reaches forward on his bed to grab his phone. He goes to text Lardo, but she’s beaten him to it.

 **Lardo:** He’s got to know he’s doing this, right?

* * *

Jack’s charming, funny even, in the Falcs team videos. He draws pictures and cracks jokes and makes insightful comments on their teamwork and strategy. But for some reason, the second he gets in front of an actual interviewer, he has the charisma of a bowling ball.

* * *

Shitty comes to a Falcs game a few weeks later. After the game, he hangs around the back of the press pack, waiting for Jack to finish up so they can head to dinner. He catches Jack’s eye and mouths _I love you_ at him, making a heart with his hands. Jack gives him a disapproving look, but Shitty knows him well enough to see the smile he’s hiding and the fondness in his eyes.

A few reporters have completely given up on getting anything out of Jack, but the rest are brave enough to give it a shot. They try to give him more confrontational questions, ones that he’ll have to respond properly to, but he’s good.

“Mr Zimmermann, what do you say to the claims that it was shoddy Falcs teamwork that led to that Rangers goal in the second period? It was pretty clear that there weren’t enough people around the goal, and that’s why they were able to get it in so easily.”

“I don’t really want to comment on my teammates, but I try to get out there and play the game.”

“OK, but where were you when the Rangers scored that goal?”

“On the ice, chasing the puck.”

The interviewer sighs. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

Jack gives a tight-lipped smile. “No, I think that covers it. Have a good day.”

Shitty lets out a disbelieving breath. Jack is honestly incredible.

He’s hustled out of the room and given a stern talking-to before he’s finally free to leave.

* * *

The team have a tally of all the awkward interviews that they know about. It reached double digits weeks ago.

* * *

**_group message: the squad_ **

**Holster:** ok but imagine how well he’d hold up under torture

 **Shitty:** JESUS FUCK

 **Lardo:** “Mr Zimmermann, tell us the information or we’ll cut off your foot.”

 **Lardo:** “You know, there definitely is information. It exists. Ask someone else.”

 **Holster:** “are u sure there’s nothing else u want to say”

 **Holster:** “yeah i’m pretty sure, thanks, have a good day”

 **Lardo:** “oh fair enough, bye” [hightails it out of the room, tells boss that there’s no point even trying]

 **Shitty:** honestly the highlight of this entire saga is how unrelentingly polite he’s trying to be

 **Shitty:** i wonder if his mom has told him off yet

 **Holster:** he’s basically holt from brooklyn 99

 **Lardo:** But with a better accent.

 **Shitty:** and a better ass

* * *

**Ransom:** stop chirping jack without me

 **Holster:** rans it’s been two hours stop paying attention in class

* * *

Mid-February, Shitty makes his way to Providence for a game and a catch-up. It’s the first time for ages that Jack has had a Sunday off, and they’re planning on taking full advantage.

He drives down on Saturday morning and gets to Jack’s around 12. Jack had morning practice, but he’s now free until he needs to head to work that evening. They spend the day wandering around the city, Jack pointing out his favourite haunts. Endearingly, he’s brought his camera, and they have to keep stopping for Jack to take pictures of leafless trees and frozen ponds and rugged-up crowds.

They stop for lunch at a small café near Jack’s apartment. They haven’t been there for more than a few minutes, haven’t even ordered yet, when Shitty’s update on the chronic hellscape of law school is interrupted by a fan asking Jack for an autograph. He smiles charmingly and ends up going over to the woman’s table, saying hi to her kids and partner.

When he sits back down to the table, Shitty takes his hand. “Jack, babe, if I ask you a question, do you promise you’ll answer it honestly?”

Jack looks surprised, but he nods after a second. “What’s up, man?”

Shitty gives himself a second to formulate the question before he blurts out, “Why the fuck are you suddenly so terrible in interviews?”

Jack frowns slightly, but there’s a cheeky glint in his eye. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, dude. I know you’ve never loved interviews, man, I get it, but at least you used to give sincere answers. Now it’s all, ‘yes, that is true’. Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened, it’s just…”

“You can tell me anything, Zimms. You know that.”

Shitty knows Jack almost as well as he knows himself. He knows, if he waits, Jack’s guilty conscience will overwhelm him and the truth will come spilling out. It doesn’t work for everyone, obviously, but he and Jack are on the same page. Thank fuck, to be honest, because they really need to get to the bottom of this.

“Yeah, I know, but… it’ll sound stupid.”

“Bro.” Shitty fixes Jack with one of his patented looks. It only takes about five seconds.

“Yeah, I don’t know, man. I guess I just got sick of doing interviews all the time. Is that terrible? They just – every game, all they wanted was to get my thoughts, _my_ opinions. I’m brand new to the league, why the fuck should they care about my thoughts? Ask someone with some decent experience.”

“Yeah but, brah… You’re you. You’re Jack Zimmermann. Of course they’re going to want your thoughts.”

Jack groans and slams his head onto the table, only narrowly missing his glass of water. Shitty reaches over to move it. “That’s the point, though, isn’t it? Would they care if I wasn’t a Zimmermann? I know it’s part of the game, an important part, but I just thought … you know, if I’m not great at it, maybe they’ll just ask other people, the people they _should_ be asking. You know, just … leave me to play my game.”

Shitty takes a deep breath before he responds. “OK, but … people used to ask you questions at Samwell all the time and it wasn’t ever an issue.”

Jack sits up straight and pulls a face. He’s honestly such a child; Shitty isn’t sure how he’s developed this terrifying stoic second personality. “I know, but – at Samwell, I was a big fish in a small pond. Relatively speaking, you know. And not trying to be big headed. It’s just true. But here, in the NHL, there’s hundreds of players who have more experience and more worthwhile things to say. I’m a first season rookie, just leave me alone, let me play my game, get back to me in a few years when I have some street cred.”

“You’ve got street cred to me, bro.”

“Shits, I’m serious.”

Shitty smiles. “I know, dude.” He pauses for a minute, working out what he wants to say. “Maybe you could talk to management, tell them that you don’t feel comfortable doing this much press until you’re a bit more established? You could offer to do more photo ops and stuff if you felt bad. Maybe some sponsorship deals? Show that glorious face to the world.”

Jack pulls a face.

“Oh, so you hate fucking sponsorship and photo ops as well? Sorry, dude, but you’re going to have to do something. They signed you to their team, you’re going to have to do your job.” Jack goes to interrupt, but Shitty cuts him off. “And before you say what you were about to say, all of this _is_ part of your job.”

“I know that,” Jack groans. “So what can I do about it?”

“Make it work for you, dude. Go to management and offer them an option that’ll work for both parties. Use that huge beautiful brain of yours, I’m sure you can find something.”

* * *

Jack becomes the new face of three brands, seemingly overnight. He smiles for the camera and shows up at press spots and talks about products, but not himself. It seems to work for him.

Three weeks later, Bitty sends a link to Shitty with nothing but the caption “LOOK AT THEIR TINY SKATES!!!”. It’s the first video of a series about a new outreach initiative, featuring Jack coaching a team of five year olds from around Providence. They wobble on their skates, their hockey sticks taller than them, but they beam, teeth missing, as their coach gives them encouragement.

Shitty doesn’t focus on the objectively adorable children, though. His eyes are drawn to Jack.

He looks happy.

**Author's Note:**

> if you so desire, come say hi on [tumblr](http://murrayhewitt.tumblr.com).


End file.
